Reaching for the Sky, for the Sake of Dr. Ernesto Bernal

As a child, I had very few heroes. The fluidity of childhood meant growth and change, so there wasn’t a fixed amount of time to develop long-term trust in adults, save for their daily presence in your life. Thanks to Keystone School, all the educators placed teaching as their number one priority, so eventually I’d find many heroes throughout my years there.

To be clear, the founders were never my heroes; they were facilitators in my life. Aside from my mom, I do recall awarding the first title of “hero” to the future Dr. Ernesto Bernal, who taught English and Government to the high schoolers. At the time, he was known as “Mr. Bernal” or “Mr. B.” I trusted him implicitly, instinctively, and I was, and remain, slow to give my trust.

Keystone’s campus was a collective of old Victorian style homes in the Monte Vista District of San Antonio. Not only did it feel like home, it looked like home. Fireplaces in certain rooms, old-time radiators in others, a red plastic vinyl couch in the main hallway for children to sit on between classes, and a full-scale commercial kitchen smack in the middle of the building with amazing cooks preparing homemade lunches. The old carriage house was now a makeshift science lab with a classroom directly upstairs, accessed by iron railed steps. There was no gymnasium; we had an asphalt basketball court. Yes, we were home all right.

As a discerning child, clearly more skeptical than I realized until years later, I expected people to fall into one of two categories: ones who would do what they said they would do, and others whose word meant nothing.

One of the “grown-ups” I met first at Keystone was Mr. Bernal. He’d soared through Central Catholic High School and St. Mary’s University and when I arrived, he was teaching at Keystone, highly regarded as both teacher and friend by all my friends in high school. That last sentence might give you pause to doubt…a five-year-old with friends in high school? That was Keystone, though, and as diverse as we were in race, creed, and socioeconomic level, we were diverse in the ages of our friends. At the time, I was about 18 months younger than most of my own classmates. So, the high schoolers were fascinating to me, as they never talked “down” to me. Not one.

That’s how I was bold enough to address a “grown-up” and greet Mr. Bernal often, early in the morning when he arrived on campus and checked into the dining room to welcome the day. With his warm, loving smile, my eyes quickly found his and I went right up to him. He extended his hand and shook it firmly and bowed his six-foot-plus frame to meet me at eye level, without crouching down. His deep, rich voice resonated with his words.

Everyone received the same greeting, so I wasn’t any different than the others. He carefully studied all his “future” students. His senior high students adored him, and they considered him a mentor, friend, and almost equal, as he was really only about six years older than they were.

Later, Mr. Bernal would embark on master’s studies at St. Mary’s, while teaching. Although he ultimately left Keystone in 1966 to pursue doctoral studies full-time, it wouldn’t be the last time we’d see him. He’d come back occasionally to visit with some students who were now seniors themselves. Now, they addressed him as Ernie. He remained their friend and mentor, even if he wasn’t their teacher. And, St. Mary’s wasn’t that far away and we loved seeing him.

And, it wasn’t until Oct. 1, 2016, that I would learn the story behind how Ernie came to Keystone. I will quote directly from the beautiful words written by his wife, Carmen, and shared on the day of the unveiling of a most special honor, long overdue. As she writes,

“On the Monday after Labor Day, 1960, Ernie M. Bernal, a 22-year-old brand new graduate of St. Mary’s University, walked into Keystone School to start a job as high school English teacher and Government teacher. His job interview with Coach Edwin W. Eargle, Headmaster of Keystone, had been rather rushed and he was told, ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ Coach added, ‘WE have a lot of applicants for this job.’ Ernie answered, ‘Not like me you don’t.’ And he was invited to sit back down and chat a while.”

Of course, he was hired.

Just as every student basically was involved in as many extracurricular activities as possible, Keystone faculty wore more than two hats. Originally asked to help grade the entrance exams screening potential Keystone students, Ernie asked if he could reach out to expand the pool of scholarship students by calling colleagues and friends at every high school across San Antonio including all socioeconomic backgrounds to send their best to try out.

They immediately agreed. It was because of Ernie Bernal that Keystone truly became ethnically diverse and seamlessly so. Throughout my entire twelve years at Keystone it was always the most wonderful learning experience everyone enjoyed. It wasn’t simply tolerance for others’ beliefs, we embraced our cultural diversity and brought out the best in one another, always with respect. That’s to Ernie’s insight and credit plus others’ good judgment.

Keystone graduated more than the usual number of future scientists and doctors, but they educated everyone to be critical thinkers and even philosophers, ready to take on anything and everything with a passion. Debate was encouraged, opposing ideas always welcome. Independent thought among students was cultivated. Spirits of creativity abounded.

For six years, from 1960 to 1966, Keystone flourished with the presence of educator Bernal. But as a child, I never knew that. While teaching at Keystone, he completed his M.Ed. in Education and had risen to Vice Principal of the High School, while teaching English and Social Studies. I only knew Mr. Bernal greeted me every morning with a smile, a bow down to shake my hand, and a lovely wish to have a great day, along with a gentle admonition to work hard. I did so willingly, with his encouragement.

As you can see from some of the yearbook photos, Russian, German, Spanish, French, and Latin were the languages taught in addition to Chemistry, Biology, English, Math, Physics, and Music. You took as many classes as you could handle, with the permission of Mr. Bernal and Coach Eargle, who assessed each student’s future college interests and gave permission.

I couldn’t wait to introduce my mom to my friend, Mr. Bernal. One day he was on campus after school let out, and my mom came to pick me up after working her secretarial civil service job at a San Antonio AFB. When they saw each other, there was a warm recognition in both of their eyes as she said to me, “Dawn Lee, I’ve known Ernie for years, since he was a young man.” Turns out, he had a first job working at the executive offices of the grocery store chain for which my mother had worked, long before she met and married my dad. She’d proudly watched him grow up.

Later that night, Mom pulled out a copy of an old newsletter she’d designed for the company, showed me his picture and told me how he was one of the young people the company hired for the summer and how hard he worked. I had long forgotten that for decades until I saw that exact same photograph in Ernesto’s tribute video Sunday night. It nearly tore my heart out as I flashed back to being five years old again, when I had just first met Mr. Bernal, and the memories flooded through as did the need to cry, but I didn’t. Not then at least.

People weave in and out of our lives, just as the beautiful “Weaving of Words: Quotations and Tributes” that were shared Sunday night by Rose Catacalos and Kevin McManus, two of his dear friends. Keystone students’ quotes were among those included. One of the most beautiful was shared by Patricia (Jeski) Goodspeed, “He was the most influential teacher I ever had.”

I smiled hearing that, as I’d been the one to read one of the most beautiful tributes Patti wrote for him just a year ago, on the occasion of a beautiful brick paver being unveiled on the campus of Keystone School, an event he attended where he was fully aware of the love of all those who’d come for that very special day and others who shared their love via e-mail.

During the Life Celebration, my mind wandered during the lovely preservice music. I reflected on meeting Mary Carmen Tafolla, when she entered Keystone’s ninth grade, the final year that Mr. Bernal was at Keystone. Carmen was one of the kindest upperclassmen, adorable with a loving personality and a twinkle in her eyes.

She always had her arms piled full of books, foreshadowing her future as 2012 San Antonio Poet Laureate (first ever) and 2015 Texas State Poet Laureate. After Mr. Bernal left Keystone, eventually Jim Klaeveman would come to teach English and fill the void Ernie left, challenging students to express themselves. It was Ernie’s destiny calling him, and he had even more powerful accomplishments ahead.

When Carmen graduated, she went to Texas Lutheran College in Seguin, then Austin College and ultimately, like many Keystone women, she’d go on to earn her doctorate degree at UT Austin. She distinguished herself as a writer quickly. It wasn’t until many years later that the perfectly magical pairing of Carmen and Ernie would be created. Manifesting miracles happens with faith, and this was ultimately just one more example of that.

In his collegiate career, Ernie taught at St. Mary’s University, the University of Texas at San Antonio, California State University–Fresno, Northern Arizona University, and ultimately became Dean of Education at University of Texas–Pan American. Carmen wrote prolifically, and no one in the world was prouder or more supportive of her than her Ernesto.

The Bernals, Carmen and Ernie, shared 38 magical, loving years together, weathered the loss of their first child, Cielos, and the health challenge that Carmen refused to give into, emerging victorious from that battle. Carmen lost her beloved mother (age 99), in January this year. Yet, she remained brilliant as an author, writing while faithfully caring for their children and providing daily loving care for Ernie, who fought Parkinson’s through Stage 5 and beyond. Never once did Carmen complain. Ernesto’s love and the love they shared was sufficient to see her through the demands of her daily life. Keystone kids are multitaskers—we insist on it. But there’s a limit, yet Carmen soared above the limit.

She has always been a hero (she-ro) to me, just because she was a published writer. I loved seeing her when I’d return to San Antonio for Keystone reunions, formal and informal, with all the upperclassmen I’d admired growing up. We were only a few years apart and class year was never a barrier to being part of a Keystone family activity. For so many years, Tommye Brennan Howard ’63 hosted a gathering in her home, or we’d meet at Jim’s Coffee Shop for a reunion burger and fries and hours of coffee and conversation.

I remember once we all came together specifically to help “save” Keystone from (I’m searching for a kind word here) less-than-gifted leadership. Many alumni were so concerned that we met with Keystone parents and board members to determine whether we could be helpful.

Ultimately the leadership continued a few more years. Independently, a few Keystone alumni and Ernesto formed the Camino School concept, and the San Antonio Gifted Education Foundation was started. This school was described in one of Ernesto’s numerous peer-reviewed academic publications.

What I never knew, even until I heard it Sunday night, was the pioneer and cutting-edge researcher that Ernesto had become throughout his educational and academic administrative positions. He never spoke of it at gatherings; he was entirely focused on what we were all doing in our lives and careers, forever the encourager who believed in us unconditionally. We thought everything was golden in academe.

My heart broke to hear on Sunday night, from two of Ernesto’s academic colleagues, that because of his brilliance and innovation and the fact that he was a natural pied piper of future educational leaders, others—often in a superior administrative position—were jealous of him. They tried to find ways and means of quashing his light, but they were not the gifted and talented educator that Ernie was, and they failed.

That they tried, though, hurt so badly to hear. But as one of his students recalled, he was merely amused at their attempts. Because he was smarter, he considered the source of the discontent and projected pity for the purveyor. Yet, you know he felt the pain of interdepartmental rivalry. Academic egos are often so fragile, and there’s such competition for the spotlight that it’s commonplace.

Ernie’s brilliance and respect garnered among his peers, from professional colleagues to students, would dwarf any insecure person. Yet, academics is supposed to be the home of sharing, interacting, exchanging ideas and getting to the best ones. However, it’s also home base for those who would prefer to argue over the location of their precious parking space.

Although those colleagues no doubt caused Ernie to seek new academic positions elsewhere at times, from those trials came the opportunities to work with even brighter minds, interacting with new students and reaching out to an even larger audience through the new works accomplished. What we heard was how Ernie had encouraged virtually every student he interacted with to become an honors student, to work hard, give back, love life, and be a good community servant. Several private “good deeds” never before heard about Ernie’s life included spending consecutive weekends chopping wood and delivering it to homes in need for winter heat across town; early on, despite a tight budget, he shared generously and often helping families in need.

One future CEO wrote about how, when Ernesto was being pushed out of a department by a jealous superior, he made a phone call to assure that young faculty would have jobs, personally placing them around the country. One younger colleague remembers he said she’d be “just perfect” for a job in company of which she is, 25 years later, now the CEO. These individual stories, loving messages and diverse testimonials formed the portrait of a man we all loved without even knowing these things.

On the 50th anniversary of Ernesto’s teaching career, many of us from Keystone gathered among the crowd in Olga and Al Kauffman’s home. The Keystone kids included: Bruce and Suzi Hughes, Bonnie Ellison, Wayne Vick, and my beloved big sister/friend, Tommye Brennan Howard. We paid tribute to the man who’d changed our lives forever with his love, of us and of education. It was wonderful to meet Father Eddie Bernal, Ernesto’s younger brother, whom he’d badgered his mother —relentlessly—to bring into their lives.

In an adorable story told Sunday, Ernie so greatly wanted a younger brother, and he asked his mother all the time for one. As was shared, Ernie’s mother explained to him that she was now a bit older and the possibility existed that it was risky and that she might have a child born with two heads. That didn’t deter Ernie one bit as he said, in Spanish, that he would absolutely love a baby brother with two heads!! We all exploded with laughter, knowing how passionate he was about his causes. Fr. Eddie was another of God’s gifts to everyone as he was the light of Ernie’s life for so many years, until a heart attack took him on May 29, 2016. Still, we were all together for Ernesto's special celebration, as lovingly created by Carmen, Olga, and Al, for all of us to enjoy.

It didn’t seem that long ago we were all together at the Kauffman home, offering our thoughts and written tributes, visiting with each other like it was 1963. It wasn’t. Sadly, illness struck Ernie and it came in the form of Parkinson’s Disease. It was a challenge he battled bravely and with dignity. In late summer 2014, Tommye and I had planned a day to bring lunch and visit with Ernie and Carmen. Tommye was bringing the food (you knew that already) and I would be bringing the Bill Miller’s iced tea (you knew that already, too). Sadly, the night before our planned day, Ernesto was admitted to the hospital, so the visit was postponed. “Soon,” we said. “We’ll do it very soon,” we all agreed.

Didn’t happen. Just two weeks later Tommye suffered a heart attack, and while in the hospital, it was discovered that she’d had end-stage cancer that had gone undiagnosed. A week later she was gone. Not bringing this up to mark yet more sorrow but only to emphasize the fragility of life and to pound it into my head to never miss a day telling people who are important in my life that they are important in my life, irreplaceable, and loved.

In 2016, when we were celebrating Ernesto’s paver unveiling at Keystone, Carmen was still reflecting Ernesto’s modesty in sharing only some information about his pioneering career work, noting that he’d “published the first research on the gifted Mexican American child, and became a well-respected scholar in the fields of gifted bilingual education, psychometrics, and test bias.”

In fact, as we learned things we’d never known before on Sunday, Dr. Ernesto Marroquín Bernal required multiple individuals speaking to share just a few of his achievements. He had been chosen to deliver the inaugural address at the Escola di Marketing, Educació, y Administració in Barcelona, Spain, because of his role in organizational change. Imagine if you will a young man from San Antonio, Texas with a passion for life and education, able to change the world with his brilliant mind. That was Ernesto.

He developed the Division of Bicultural/Bilingual Studies at UTSA in the 1970s together with Dr. Albar Peña and Dr. Tomás Rivera. The Bernals together with former Keystone students created Camino, a bilingual school for the gifted and creative child. We knew about Camino, but we didn’t know that Ernie had been honored by the College Board for his work exposing them to the testing bias of their instruments. What he showed in his research was that minority children were being mislabeled “culturally deprived” and he shone a light on the gifted Latino child, which had never been done before.

National recognition and accolades were heaped upon Ernesto in his lifetime but still they only measured one aspect of his impact. If any one area of accomplishment should be highlighted, it was his ability to teach others when statistics were actually valid and reliable vs. when they were false elements used as weapons to boost misguided precepts.

There was beautiful music incorporated into Ernesto’s life celebration, including “Danos Paz,” offered by Chayito Champion and Steve Arispe, then “Here I Am Lord,” and “On Eagle’s Wings,” with Helen Lloyd on guitar leading the congregation and the conclusion was the Champion family performing “Sevillana — an Expression of Despedida,” a final farewell.

A moving rosary was held to conclude Sunday night’s observations and reflections on his life. On Monday, Sept. 11, the funeral liturgy was held at St. Timothy’s Catholic Church with a Mass of the Resurrection. In both services, a magnificent video was shared that was prepared lovingly by David H.B.T. Marroquín. Son Israel Bernal read “High Flight” in commemoration of Ernesto’s love of flying. The Rosary Recitation, presented by so many faithful friends, reminded us to focus on giving thanks to God for his life.

It is said that angels get their wings when they transition from the earthly existence to the next life in Heaven. I’m inclined to dispute the timing on that concept, in that, upon reflection, surely we had an angel here among us for some 79 years of his life and more than 50 years among ours. We do not grieve for Ernie, who is at last free of the constraints that prevented him from communication, except through his loving, knowing eyes.

We grieve for his family and for ourselves that we had to say goodbye, but rather than wallow in yet more pity and pain of loss, it would seem fitting that we can rededicate our lives and our daily activities to doing our best, being our best, helping strangers and friends alike, encouraging children we meet to become honor students, to live lives filled with passionate pursuit of “the best,” in whatever form they perceive it. For if we can do that, and keep Ernesto’s example uppermost in our minds, then we can reach for the sky, just as he taught us, and be our most authentic selves. God bless you, Ernesto, and thank you for your love of the Keystone kids. You’re still my hero.

Belfry Music Theatre Gem Near Lake Geneva, Wisconsin Holds History, Magic for Concerts

It’s only one hour north of Chicago to discover a hidden gem concert venue near the popular resort area of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Specifically nestled in beautiful Williams Bay, Wisconsin, is an intimate concert venue that has combined the beauty of an historic setting, and made it into a thriving scene of music entertainment. On Sept. 15 and 16, it will be home to capacity crowds who come to see The Buckinghams in concert.

It’s easy to get to. From their web site, belfrymusictheatre.com, it is located 6 miles West of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin just south of Highway 50 on the corner of Highway 67 and Bailey Road. To assist you in planning your visit, visit their web site to show you exactly how to get there from Milwaukee, Chicago, and other locales. They’ve already done the heavy lifting for you with suggested lodging, lunch and dining options, and free parking to boot. This is a vacation destination!

On Friday and Saturday, Sept. 15 and 16, though, the music of The Buckinghams will ring through the theatre, bringing the best of their 1960s hits and 1970s classic rock favorites in a setting where every seat is a “best seat in the house.” That’s the beauty of intimate venues.

As of this writing, the Saturday, Sept. 16 show is 100% sold out and some tickets remain for the Friday, Sept. 15th show but act NOW. Don’t wait. You don’t want to miss this very special weekend of The Buckinghams at Lake Geneva! Tickets range from $42 to $57 and can be purchased at https://www.belfrymusictheatre.com/event/buckinghams.php

It’s the perfect way to wrap up the 50th anniversary of the Summer of Love as fall ushers in a changing of the seasons. And be sure and sign up for their mailing list. You never know who’s coming, but it’s guaranteed there will be tremendous music ahead for you to enjoy.

The Powerful Healing of Words of Love

As this day marks another time of disbelief and anguish in life as it unfolds, and tumultuous times escalate, even in Bryan-College Station, words, words, and more words are flying back and forth. It’s easy to get lost in incessant outrage, and when every sentence you think begins with “Are you serious?” it looks bleak. Yet, something unique happened today, entirely unexpected, and I’d like to share it, hopefully as inspiration.

Early, early Sunday morning, I posted this remark on Facebook:

Facebook wanted me to share how my day went. 😂 😂 😂 Well let me just say this...there are times in your life when you are so grateful you have good friends that love you, and today was a shining example of that. No big story of woe to share here, no reason for worry or sympathy is needed. Just sharing joy this late night hour in having loving friends like family as I feel incredibly lucky. Thanks for asking Facebook and you have a good night, as well. Let us all find a reason to be thankful and share joy, plus the bonus is that we can all find something to be joyful over!

At that point, I wasn’t interested in taking my Facebook friends through my recent “surprise” that had happened just five hours earlier. Let’s just say that you don’t want to climb steep steps in a movie theatre wearing flip-flops. Enough said. But just a few words more about that.

No one cherishes a face-plant, but when one happens that looks worse than it feels, that’s a good thing, for starters. But that thought didn’t bring any comfort to dear friend #1, because I couldn’t tell what my face looked like because her face seemed very calm.

Her encouragement of me to let her take me to urgent care, though, wasn’t heeded because I didn’t need it. I knew I was fine. And first thing, a dear movie patron comes down from the row behind us (as I’d made my way to my seat, sort of), and tells me she’s first-aid certified and was reassuring that I should go get it checked out. Someone had managed to find three theatre employees and they were there like magic, with a bag of ice, paper towels, and one had a clipboard to get my information and see how else they could be of help.

Dear friend #1 followed me home, to assure that I made it home, and I was fine as I drove the easy distance home. On the way I called dear friend #2 and she said, “I was just thinking of you!!! What’s going on?” and I said, “Well, um, it’s a long story but…” and she said, “I’ll be at your front door in 20 seconds….I was waving at her, smiling, as I drove to the garage.

She was ever as calm as she always is and reassured dear friend #1 that she would make me go to urgent care and override me, if I didn’t have a change in what was going on at the time. Two hours later, I decided that it was “almost” better, and I had no pain at all, nothing was broken, everything was fine, but my face said otherwise. Long story short, things improved and she confirmed same, and I knew it was going to be great.

Before I went to sleep, I just felt so thankful on so many levels. Nothing hurt, nothing was broken, and kindness had abounded everywhere around me. Angels all, seen and unseen. I did the standard concussion protocol and woke up every two hours. Each time, I smiled that I knew full well my name, my address, and that I'd been surrounded by angels the entire time.

Dear friend number #3 brought breakfast over the next morning so I wouldn't have to go out. Then, lunch later that day with dear friends, #4 and #5, then life went on as usual. Text messages from all of the above checking on me in person and online continued. The joy of cover-up sunglasses will hide a multitude of facial imperfections. In fact, I rather liked how I looked in those sunglasses, and again, miraculously, nothing hurt. Nothing was broken. Blah, blah, blah.

Moving forward, on Monday, I drove to the theatre to talk to the manager to thank him for training his staff (he wasn’t there that night) to respond so kindly, professionally, and showing true caring. I know he was nervous at first seeing me, as anyone might be when walking in before he’d had a chance to call me. He said that I was on his call list for that day as he was back in the office and had just read the report. I said, “Relax, I’m here to share compliments, with you.”

We had a lovely chat and I asked him if there was something I could do to commend those staffers to him and he said he’d look up who was there and make sure they know. I left with guest passes and concession refunds and nothing but feeling fortunate for everything. Again--nothing broken, no pain. No reason to say "awww" or feel badly for me. Please don't. I am 100% fine!

I went home and found the theater’s web site and sent an e-mail to corporate management to thank the local folks for their actions. When you feel so fortunate, gratitude fills your heart and mind. The e-mail they returned to me was equally personal, thoughtful, and I look forward to returning there for the next movie. The only ironic, hilarious thing is that we were headed to see “Wonder Woman.” Well, I already own the cape, the glasses and the silver bracelets, but I’m not, and never was a Teen Titan, but I did grow up to be an avenger, of sorts, ha.

Life went on, work went on, and five days later, I look much better although I describe myself as “I know I look like a six-year-old helped me with my makeup,” as it usually brings a smile. And, it actually does look like a six-year-old helped me.

So when I went into College Station's Jason’s Deli tonight for a to-go order, I saw a very sweet young lady behind the to-go counter. She took my order and I figured I still looked pretty scary and she wasn’t even flinching, so I said, “Don’t worry, dear, I’m fine; one of those things, I’m very lucky.” And we had a lovely chat and I didn’t think I’d said anything unusual to set myself apart as any other to-go customer.

When I arrived home and started unpacking my healthy sandwich and sides, I was stunned when I saw the napkin, pictured in the photograph above, which reads: “You are a gorgeous person, inside & out. Thank you for being you!”

I don’t think anything has stunned me in a long time the way this message of kindness, included to be found later. I'd done absolutely nothing that I could think of that would have precipitated such kindness. Could not imagine what the trigger would have been, and yet, I gave up questioning the "why" and focused on my reaction. The smile on my face has lasted for two hours now. I’m still smiling.

As the news of the day from many sources around me, national news coverage over things I never thought I’d live to see, other news of hurtful actions against people I regard, who did nothing to deserve it except work hard and being kind, gracious professionals, in a day and time when everywhere you turn, people who are afraid to stand up and speak out remain frozen in their tracks…this small miracle happened.

As I’ve given it considerable thought, one message remained in my mind over and over. The power of words can heal a broken heart; the power of random acts of kindness can change a life and a person’s outlook long beyond the day’s end; and the power of one person to make a difference is endless. It begins with one voice, one action, one kind thought, one exceptional deed, one hug, one kiss, one heart reaching out for another, and from there, the possibilities are endless.

It’s like a domino effect, holding on to hope, to believing in the basic goodness in all people, and searching hard within them to bolster those who need lifting up, to being there for friends who are being treated poorly and unkindly, and offering faith and comfort when people are about ready to give up on the basic principle of “do the right thing, no matter what.” Together, kindness can conquer evil. Together, words of love can bring healing rather than division. Together, people taking the first step to move forward embolden others to reach out for another’s hand can and will make a difference.

Writer Thomas Bähler reminds, “Anything is possible.” Phillippians 4:13 reminds “I can do all things through him who gives me strength.” And my mother said, “Never give up having faith, never.” Wise words all.

Smile, shine, work, believe, hope, pray, meditate, act positively with kindness, always. There’s more of “us” than there are of “them.” Every single day.

Glen Campbell passes away, leaving Baby Boomers inherently sad

Sitting at my computer reading the words surrounding Glen Campbell’s passing being shared across social media today leaves me feeling like we’ve all been robbed of part of our youth.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that we tuned in to “The Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour” on television, and watched as a pure-D country boy from Delight, Arkansas, charmed his way into our homes and our hearts? That was 1969.

Delight, Arkansas, proudly claims their native son. It's 34 miles from Delight to Hope, Arkansas, the city best known as a birthplace of a U.S. President. It's also the birthplace of a good friend here in Bryan, Texas, and in my many travels there over past decades, the people there today are as gracious and kind as they were back when Glen was growing up there. Small towns always have charm, good stories, great vegetables to prepare, local color, and rich history worth sharing for the next generations. Most of all, they as a community are proud when one of their own "makes good." They claim you, and that says "everything" about you right there. You belong.

By the time of the "Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour," though, Glen was already a television veteran, having appeared on 21 episodes of “Shindig” from 1964–1965 He was a self-taught “guitar picker” of the first order in Arkansas terms. In Los Angeles music circles, he was a first-call studio musician. Years of practice made him one of the most accomplished raw talents ever to find acclaim without having been mentored or shepherded into the field by someone else. He found his own way to Hollywood. Therein began the problem, I think.

The characterization of country music singers as down-to-earth was never more deserving as when Glen Campbell wore the title. Every photo you see of him as a member of the fearless Los Angeles “Wrecking Crew” shows a clean-cut boy ready to go to work each day. He wore a white dress shirt and even a preppy sweater at times in the studio.

Left: Glen Campbell, Wrecking Crew member, in the studio. Photo credit: CNN.

Right (below): Leon Russell, Wrecking Crew member, in the studio. Photo credit: The Gretsch Pages

That was even back in the day when Leon Russell wore a Duck tail type haircut lathered in Brylcreem, before his “top hat” and Duck Dynasty beard. Every musician had a “look” in the 1960s, even in the times of the Wrecking Crew. Hal Blaine always had cool aviator glasses, Tommy Tedesco had a neatly-trimmed moustache, Carol Kaye had her cat-style eyeglasses and Glen Campbell always looked like the boy next door. Later he’d find turtleneck shirts and snappy country-western suits as his choice of attire. He always took the time to present a neat image.

True, they were for decades unknown celebrities, but today thanks to Denny Tedesco and social media, they're recognized for their genius and role in creating the music we all love and still own. No, anonymity didn't guarantee a happy life, but it preserved a stable existence. Clearly, not all celebrities lived excessive lifestyles, but the boy from Delight was transfixed by what he thought was his playground to enjoy and he chose not to miss a moment of it, the grand, the great, and the tragic. Eventually, he crashed and burned, badly. When it came time for Glen to record his own songs, naturally the Wrecking Crew would be his choice. Quick, hear the opening of “Wichita Lineman” in your head? Opening bass line that sets the whole song for you? Carol Kaye. And so it was that Glen Campbell, playing his guitar on hit after hit, including and especially the Beach Boys’ sound, helped establish and undergird the elements of every pop, rock, and easy listening song on virtually every label coming out of Los Angeles.

Yes, Glen was part of the Beach Boys for a time, but really, he was the first and only one of the Wrecking Crew to really ever break out of the pack on his own and achieve a level of stardom that eclipsed many of the people whose records he was on as a session player.

Someone brilliantly put together a YouTube video of Glen’s best guitar solos, and it’s definitely worth a look.

Glen lost himself inside the world that he'd longed to live in and belong to. In becoming a true member of "the scene," he left behind the safety and stability of the Wrecking Crew, whose lifestyles didn't include drugs and alcohol because they worked unglamorous hours and raised their kids on the money they made in the studios each day. Glen had belonged there, too, and stayed as long as he could, until his desire to stretch and grow overran his good common sense. He crossed the line of safety. While others partied hard, the Wrecking Crew (save for a choice few) have lived full, healthy lives because they knew better than to try and risk stability for drugs.

While he was sprinkled in stardust and lit by spotlights, hit after hit belonged to Glen Campbell, thanks in large measure to the songwriting talents of Jimmy Webb. As a Texan, probably my favorite of Glen’s songs was “Galveston,” penned by Webb.

Again, what's poignant in this video is that Glen allows Steve Wariner plenty of time to share the spotlight, and then he shows on his own solo the virtuoso that he was always will remain in the hearts and minds of those who love him.

Another Webb-Campbell hit was the angst-filled song that became ‘known’ was “Where’s the Playground, Susie,” which Glen poured his soul into as he sang. “Wichita Lineman” was probably the biggest hit of the Webb-Campbell combination, although I’m not relying on chart history, just strong subjective opinion.

Again, you see songwriter John Hartford on banjo on Glen's show. He was always surrounded by the best musicians, and in the studio, he was as well.

Then, perhaps others' favorite Webb-Campbell combo is on "By the Time I Get to Phoenix." In this version, Glen is definitely "young Glen" with his newly minted country-style suit, and his guitar with his name on the fretboard, the way many Grand Ol' Opry stars had on their custom guitars. It's charming, really, and it's country.

Glen Campbell’s life and loves and trauma-drama of his middle years were typical tabloid fodder. I recall being extremely angry reading his actions because he had made so many poor choices. It’s funny to read that sentence back, knowing he didn’t give a flying fig about what I, or anyone else, thought of him, and yet, whenever I collect music and follow the careers of singers I enjoy, musicians I admire, I’d like to think that I make smart choices. When they do something dumb, I dismiss them from my mind and say, “Well, that was great music for its time…moving on, now.”

But something happened in the middle of my disdain for Glen and his distracted craziness as he played victim to “living life large,” and that was basically so many of his fans also gave up on him, stopped caring, and he went to being a caricature of himself, it seemed. It wouldn’t have been inappropriate to ask him, “Didn’t you used to be Glen Campbell?”

He had a wicked funny sense of humor. He was popular on television talk shows and kept the hosts in stitches as his natural responses to their questions revealed country-boy charm mixed with big-city wisdom and America sort of fell in love with him again. All was forgiven, sort of, kind of. He was, after all, a maniacally good guitarist who was a savant at how to deliver a song.

In 1993, I had the great fortune of traveling with a dear friend as we took her mother to the mecca trip of all mecca trips: Branson, Missouri. It had been a bucket list item for her and as we made the trek, we saw six shows in three days. The major league brilliant college-age showband backing consummate showman Andy Williams at his Moon River Theatre, to Tony Orlando giving his all at the newly christened Yellow Ribbon Theatre, to Wayne Newton (of course!) being Wayne Newton, Shoji Tabuchi at the Shoji Tabuchi Theatre (ask anyone about that theatre and one word comes to mind—bathrooms!—elegant!), and then Glen Campbell and the Smothers Brothers on the same bill, just like the old days on television.

I remember that Glen’s oldest daughter, Debby, performed with him, and it seemed as though the onstage duo was mending hearts as well as blending songs as they reunited to make music. Glen’s musicality was never in question. He played about every instrument someone tossed at him, and made it all look easy. It felt good to watch a calmer, gentler Glen take on the music and connect with the audience “the way he used to do.”

Glen Campbell and his daughter Debby, in concert. Photo credit: Daily Mail.

Fast forward to years later and the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s Disease. Never mind the middle of his life, forget the trauma-drama that surrounded much of his conduct and waste of time and talents…America opened their hearts with sympathy to the then current plight and admission that years of living as he lived remained forgotten. The origin of Alzheimer’s in a person’s body is still not very quantifiable but no matter the origin, there it was alive and thriving in Glen Campbell’s brain, robbing him of his own best (and worst) memories. Perhaps that wasn’t so bad.

Either way, at the end of his life, Glen was fortunate enough to marry a woman who provided great loving care for him, and gave his life dignity and meaning at the very end, when it was most important to him.

One of his best friends in the final years of his life was rocker Alice Cooper. Although the two seem an unlikely combination, as this recent video interview shows, the two men were like brothers. It's heartening to hear Alice's words as they bring comfort and consolation to know that all the best circumstances surrounded Glen as his condition began to increase.

I’m not sure what the last things were that Glen Campbell actually thought about as he approached his end of days, confronting his mortality, and being relieved that a long struggle was about to end, but whether or not he realized it, he brought hours and years of joy to so many lives with his music. His talents remain unforgotten among those who respect session players; his sense of humor will always define him, and at the heart of soul of the troubled Glen Campbell, deep down inside, that kid from Delight, Arkansas, really showed up proud in the big city, where he made his fame and fortune on talent, guts, and determination.

Sharing a special video of a favorite song, with both Glen and John Hartford, who wrote the song, performing and showing Glen’s gift of harmony and humility as he allows the songwriter to have a showcase of his own. That’s the true strength of starpower, when you can give the credit where it is due. The singer makes the beautiful song a major hit, but it’s even more beautiful when the singer thanks the songwriter for the hit that brought the magic.

Rest in peace, Glen Travis Campbell. You’ll always be gentle on my mind.

Photo credit: TWC Central.

The Power of Family

The more time we spend with people, the more we discern who we most enjoy being around, working with, spending good times with and who we’d go into the proverbial foxhole with. Today, the youth call it their “ride or die” friends and another variation is “ride and live” friends, depending. Most people just now say “they’re family.”

The word “family” has far too long been reserved for people your parents tell you that you’re related to. I remember hearing a young cherub say, back in 2001, “Our family goes to this church. We go here.” She wasn’t even old enough to name all the members of her family, but she knew that “our family goes to this church.”

A good friend and I often discuss “family” and who is part of our extended family, the people we regard as “ours.” Now, even Hallmark makes a greeting card, “For a friend who’s just like family,” and it’s meant to show the bond that exists between a group of people beyond whatever a birth certificate says, or doesn’t.

In the world of a private school, at least the one I went to, it was one of the most beautiful microcosms, or social experiments that you could ever hope for. We were about 300 strong, from 1st through 12th grades. Later, Keystone School would add a kindergarten, once they bought a building at the end of the block in which to locate it. And, I remember that we all knew one another, at least by first and last name and which grade we were in. If someone went to Keystone, for one year for all twelve years, we were a family.

When I was in first grade, my mother and I would be walking through the halls of Wonderland Shopping Center in San Antonio. Tall boys and teenage girls would greet me by name and I’d return the greeting, saying their name. My mom would look at me in wonder and say, “How do they know you, Dawn Lee? Where do you know them from?” and in my five-year-old voice, I’d reply, “Oh, we go to school together.”

Mom did her best not to drop her jaw and I didn’t think a thing of it until long after graduation when I’d greet those who were the first and second graders when I was in high school. I marveled at how beautifully they’d matured, but I never once felt a bit older. At Keystone, we were timeless.

Our mortality was never in question, save once, when we heard of a member of the class of ’63, Ernest Holub, who’d been caught up in a current when the Senior Class was on their Class Trip. Ernest died, and a memorial fountain was constructed on the front lawn of the main building in his memory, where it remained until most recent years.

Just as we the students considered ourselves as family, so too were many of the teachers who spent their lifetimes and livelihood at Keystone teaching all of us. The salaries were not competitive in the least, and many of our teachers “moonlighted” by teaching at area colleges simultaneously when they were teaching us. Interestingly our senior classes used the same books as the college freshmen, and that made college easier. It’s no wonder that when groups of us gather at different times during the year, depending on who’s in town, we include teachers to join us if they’re available.

After classes were done for the day, those of us with parents who worked would congregate in the school cafeteria, a large room in an old historical house that would come to be known as Keystone’s Founders Hall. There was a small television in the far corner of the room, with chairs arranged in a semicircle for children to watch “Captain Gus” host his “mateys” to watch cartoons, mostly Popeye. Then, KENS-TV showed “The Flintstones" and “The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis,” before parents arrived to pick them up.

At the other end of the cafeteria, atop long parachute-folding tables purchased from USAF surplus, the high schoolers were doing their homework or playing chess, and the elementary school children enjoyed their snacks within arm’s reach of the older kids, and the exchange of conversation was ageless. The senior kids didn’t talk down to the youngsters, who offered interesting questions and broad smiles as well as a few hugs. It’s fair to say we were one big happy family.

After graduation, for years Keystone hosted an annual holiday tea reception for alumni to come back and visit with one another. On the Friday before the holiday break, anyone in the cafeteria who wasn’t doing homework had to stop playing chess or pull away from gabbing to help out with arranging the furniture in the cafeteria. Everyone had chores and if you didn’t volunteer, there was no penalty. There was no reward or punishment if you participated in helping out but more often than not, few people sat around and watched others work. That element of family dynamics again, crowd influence by example.

It was only natural that people would collect around the school at holiday season as long as they were in college and still came back to San Antonio to see their families. But in years following that, time and distance kept the gatherings smaller and attendance faded. You have to remember that some classes were exceedingly small. By example, the class of 1973 had 10 graduates, the class of 1974 had 21 graduates (down from an initial freshman class size of 32), and the class of 1975 had 11 graduates, if memory serves. I’ll look it up later.

And yet, in the 1970s and 1980s classmates found a way to keep in touch. We wrote letters and made phone calls and stayed in active touch with many of our classmates. We drove to see each other as best we could when classes were out. In 1984 my “classmate” from 1963 (she was a senior when I was a first grader) and I worked almost a year, long distance before cell phones, to organize a reunion in 1985 and we had over 300 people attending one or more of three functions over a weekend period. In 1990, Lizzie Newman determined that as many from the 1970s of us should gather and she worked to make that happen. It did and it was lovely.

Poignantly, Lizzie passed away in 2013 and Tommye passed away in 2014, both of them far too soon with too many reasons still to be here and with many loved ones left behind in “our family.”

People react to loss differently. Some grow quiet and introspective. Others get on Facebook and write their memories. Others write far-too-lengthy blog posts. So, it’s time to get to the point of all this.

With each passing that we mark, with each loss we endure, we grieve. Our approach to grief is personal, but one thing is absolutely certain. For Keystone School, all who passed through those doors are part of a family, which actually began in 1948.

We were all impacted, for good for or bad, by our Keystone roots. Growing up in the Keystone family most assuredly defined our thirst for knowledge and our determination to pursue excellence, no matter what fun we might miss in the meantime. Others were skilled at balancing both. Of all the gifts that were imparted to us, our sense of family surely predominates as we are all today reflecting on the life of one we loved, one we knew, personally or just by virtue of knowing her brother and sister-in-law or her mother and father.

No matter where your family comes from, the ones your relatives gave you or the ones you collect into your life and keep forever, just remember to take every chance to tell people you love in your life that you love them—now. Don’t wait. Don’t assume they know.

For every opportunity you tell people in your life, “I value you’re being here,” “I cherish your friendship,” and “thank you for being my friend,” you actually see them, you hear them, and in that way they will be unforgettable. So that when, one day, that they are no longer with you all the time, your memories are rich, full and stay in your heart forever. The more love you give, the more love flows back to you. Live, love, laugh, and be grateful. That’s the best gift of family we all have to give one another. That’s the power of family.

The Heart and Soul of Mary Louise Davis — Random Reflections

When I saw the newspaper announcement that longtime Bryan native Mary Louise Davis had passed away, I saw that it happened on July 4, 2017. Wistfully, I smiled to think that the gates of Heaven had opened to allow a firecracker inside, rather than Heaven projecting fireworks toward Earth. Surely hers, though, would be the kind of fire that the Holy Spirit is often portrayed as showing in the fire of Pentecost we often see. The Methodist religion often is symbolized with a cross and flame as you’ll see it on virtually every church sign in Texas (and other states).

So, to identify Mary Louise with the 4th of July, flames, and faith would be something she likely would not mind me doing. Her blue eyes and her white hair and the tall, slim figure who moved with grace and dignity were the hallmark characteristics of a southern gentlewoman who spoke deliberately and brilliantly. Now, Mary Louise was most often considered a Baptist, but first she was a Christian, with no need for labels to secure her religion.

She had a commanding, yet genteel, voice and she waited until you’d completed expressing your thoughts before pronouncing her opinion. The first time I saw her was at a gathering where the topic of discussion was golf. She’d come from her retirement life in Austin, back to Bryan to visit family and friends here, and her presence was always a delight to all who knew her and loved her.

If you were going to see her, though, you’d probably be better suited to visit Briarcrest Country Club and don’t be late for your tee time! Punctuality was a benchmark of Mary Louise’s personality. She said it had to do with respect for another person’s time.

To those who knew her far better than I, they know more about the love story and life she had with her husband, Judge W. C. “Bill” Davis, who was a brilliant, handsome attorney, educated first at Texas A&M University and then, after serving in the U.S. Army during World War II, he enrolled at Baylor and earned his law degree there.

In their early days together, Mary Louise and Bill called Bryan “home,” as Bill progressed through the local legal ranks to serve as Bryan Municipal Court Judge, Brazos County Judge, then was appointed judge of the 85th Judicial District Court by Gov. Dolph Briscoe, and was reelected for two more terms. He served as Judge, Texas Court of Criminal Appeals from 1978-1990, in Austin. He died in 1993.

Mary Louise chose to stay in the Lakeway area in the Austin hills, where golf courses abounded and sunshine was plentiful. She played golf as long as her eyesight would permit her to, and then she simply enjoyed being a part of the community there.

It was there that Mary Louise became an active part of education and Bible study for residents of Lakeway Church, a wonderful nondenominational church that overlooks a vista of Austin that seems like a small piece of Heaven itself. And so it was there that I really got insight into Mary Louise’s faith. She’d called a mutual friend here to invite her to a women’s faith seminar that was being hosted there, and my friend invited me to join her.

The program was lovely but it was at the luncheon afterwards at Mary Louise’s table where I first found insight into her faith. Life had been a challenge in many ways for this beautiful woman. The details are not important and if you know her well, you know what they were. I’d prefer to focus on her strength, her stalwart faith in God, and her inherent ability to trust in Him, no matter what all was going on around her.

After that luncheon, when Mary Louise came to Bryan, she’d call and we’d meet, or I’d be included where she was joined by longtime friends, and we had some great conversations about faith. Life and work had been so much of a challenging battlefield for me, and I felt outnumbered and weary.

One day soon afterwards, I opened my mailbox and found a small book by Bruce Wilkinson, “The Prayer of Jabez.” It was from Mary Louise and her note inside suggested that I pray that simple prayer each day and ask for strength and to follow the will of the Creator who’d made me. I was blown away…first that she had heard my concerns, my fears, and my worries, being outnumbered and powerless to right the wrongs I had not created, but were created around me.

Then, she went out and secured a copy of a book she was using as inspiration for her teachings of her group at Lakeway, and that a virtual stranger, now newcomer, could be showered with the protective rain of faith around me. She believed me and what I shared, something few people, even among my friends, did, even though it was the truth. Her being “older and wiser” meant she’d seen it all before and knew what I was going through. Her lovely low voice would ring, “Oh, I know!” and you knew in an instant that she did know.

The prayer of Jabez, and the story perhaps, have fallen by the wayside of shifting ultrapopular media minutes that have seen “The Secret,” “The Five-Minute Manager,” “Who Moved My Cheese,” Rick Warren’s “Purpose-Driven Life,” and “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff.” They each took hold of the spotlight for a while, until the next thing came along and shoved it out of the list. But the prayer of Jabez remains, simple and true.

“Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil.”

Yes, that’s the one. Twenty-six words of wisdom and faith. And yet…it asks us to stop turning inside for answers, to look outside for instruction, guidance, and direction to a path that keeps us from evil and, therefore, harm. So often we are tempted to stop and pray, meditate, and demand that our world get better—immediately.

We beseech one whom we see as a Higher Power (one I’m comfortable in calling God) to pull the knives out of our hearts and the boulders out from our paths so we can get on with having fun and enjoying life. And our tones aren’t always particularly pleasant; they can be demanding, especially if you are a person of faith, where you expect that you are “owed” something for having your faith, and you can present a list of reasons why you should be immune from suffering.

The prayer of Jabez is one of the sweetest ways in which we are told to “Shut up, get in, sit down, and buckle up” for the ride of our life (you know you’ve seen the bumper sticker). Only when we ask to be kept from evil can we assure that we’re neither the perpetrator nor the victim of same. Only when we ask that we have our territory enlarged do we grow the kind of new and strong friendships that endure far superior to the possibly superficial ones we have here in the “now” of our lives.

The book, the prayer and the thoughtfulness was a life-changer at the time and when she came to town, which was less frequently as the drive became longer and harder on her to make, we’d visit. I saw her now and then; once when I was over in her part of town, I went to her home and met Chauncy, the white ball of fluffy joy who ran her Austin life (are we not better off when we are owned by fur babies?). She showed me on her desk that she was in the midst of preparing her Bible study materials for the coming week's lesson. Mary Louise was effervescent as she told me about what she’d been teaching for the past several months. She may not have been driving around town much, but she certainly didn’t retire from teaching, inspiring and guiding her friends at Lakeway Church.

Her sense of humor was subdued, very ladylike, but the one-liners she’d deliver were priceless. We kept in touch, at least at Christmas. I loved her wisdom and her confidence in my ability to solve anything that life may throw and as she listened intently, asked relevant and poignant questions, she helped me hone in on the feeling that I’d been heard, validated, and that she had imparted a new level of insight into my challenge at the time. In fact, she cared deeply about hearing what I had to say. How many times do we really look at the people who are talking to us, face-to-face without distraction or our mind wandering to something we simply “must do”?

Friendship, true friendship, is defined by our ability to care about our friends’ lives, keep track of the people and situations and circumstances that envelop their hopes, dreams, challenges, and then to stick around to celebrate victories or offer encouragement that “This too shall pass,” and offer the true gift of staying in touch when times are good, just as when time are bad. She called at random times, just to check on me and hear what I was doing. I cherished each call. I wrote her cards and notes and sent them by mail, not knowing when a "best time" was for her schedule.

Which brings me to another chance gift, out of the blue. A decade after our first meeting, we had the chance to again connect in person for a gathering and she learned that I was balancing caregiving for my Mom while working, volunteering, and enjoying life. There’s a certain feeling of helplessness naturally that comes along with caregiving. You’re doing everything you can and yet you can’t reverse the course of aging, no matter what they tell you on television. And it’s frustrating to feel useless to make things “better” for your loved one.

So, the day I opened my mail and found Mary Louise had sent me “God Calling,” the book by A. J. Russell, was a day that a major smile was on my face. With its simple black leather-like cover, the tiny tome was slightly larger than the average paperback book and half as thick. Each day, labeled, had a particular devotional contributed for the day, and it was helpful to read and find a simple reminder to be encouraged. When we have hope, you know, we have joy. When we have faith, we have knowledge. When we have hope and faith together, we have power to do what we need to in order to keep on going.

That was Mary Louise—she knew just what, and when, you needed an infusion of faith and she delivered it. Every Christmas, after her Christmas season birthday, she’d address her Christmas picture collage of son Craig, and her beloved grandchildren, Amanda, Jeff, and Dean and, of course, Chauncy. Mary Louise was a larger-than-life figure and role model to be sure, and her family was reassured of her love, every day of their lives.

She was fortunate to be surrounded with incredibly loyal, loving and caring friends throughout her life, the kind you’d want a loved one to have “if anything should happen to you,” to be the advocate and protector to secure your future. It’s funny to describe, in this day and time, that women of any age need advocates as the perception is that women can handle anything that is thrown at them, but face it, men and women alike cannot master all that life has to offer at all levels, and friends need friends, period, to help them make long-range decisions. Mary Louise had those, without question.

Even though others didn’t realize it, because I never spoke of it, she never failed to call or e-mail on my birthday, and we talked near Christmas each year (until the most recent years) and one day she was on my mind so strongly…long story short, I reached Amanda and I told her I had been thinking about her so much.

Amanda understood what I meant and I said, if I mail her a card, will you make sure she sees it and she assured me she would. So, I promptly sat down and wrote what I felt confident that the people in my world whose life is near ending (whether imminent or eventual) will know the difference they’ve made in my life, without ever hinting of impending end-of-life. And, I know Amanda got it to her, so I felt good about that.

It would be a holiday weekday when she passed away and I was grateful that the family had included her obituary notice from Austin in the local paper. So many who live here would want to know, and despite all the modern conveniences of electronic communication, we’re grateful to still see important things in our newspaper.

The fact that she was 93 wonderful years old is heartening—she ate healthy food carefully and for some reason, I remember her extolling the benefits of eating Wasa Crispbread, as opposed to the usual loaves of preservative-infused white bread. Funny what we recall.

I remember her invitation to have lunch with her in Austin at the Headliners Club when I was going to be in the city on business. It’s a prestigious and historic club about 62 years old and in the world of exclusive clubs, it is. By invitation only, based on references of two Resident members in good standing, you’re either in, or you’re not. She had been a member for years, courtesy of the Judge’s revered status in Austin, and more business deals have reportedly been made in that building than in many others.

Those who follow Texas news know of The Headliners Foundation, who fund journalism scholarships and award prizes for Texas print and broadcast journalists, many of whom were responsible for major, well, headlines, in the best days of Texas journalism before others came in and bought up the big papers and replaced investigative reporting with Nordstrom’s ads (I think she’d like that I said that, ha). Mary Louise knew I was a budding writer and wanted me to have a view of our state capitol that put things in perspective for me. She, of course, made no attempt to let me know what an honor it was to be there. Instead, she claimed they had a marvelous salad. That’s just “classic” Mary Louise.

So, as I sit here today, a writer that she always knew I would be, I smile to think of her. I see her quiet smile and her dancing blue eyes, I hear her voice and feel her prayers of strength and encouragement for whatever it was I choose to dream. With that kind of friend, you don’t need daily contact to feel the connectivity of regard. But there were gracious reminders that our friendship still endured, through distance and health challenges.

Today, I feel certain she has her own “best seat in the house” with “her” Bill, in whatever the Headliners Club might look like up there, and most surely there’s a golf course on site, and the words “happily ever after” seem most fitting. I’ll never forget her kindness, her consideration, her example of grace and acts of faith. Well done, thou good and faithful servant.

Insight Into the Mind and Heart of a Winner -- The Gary Blair Biography

From the moment you open the book, “A Coaching Life,” by Gary Blair and Rusty Burson, you’ll meet a new friend who shares his history and his heart with you. Suspend your preconceptions of who Gary Blair is or “must be like” when you prepare to hear his story. You may know him as the Head Coach of the 2011 NCAA Division Women’s Basketball Champions.

You might know him as a Marine. Or you might just remember him from being the most frequently seen Texas A&M Administrator in the Bryan-College Station area—they're all Gary Blair, but until you read this book, you don't know the extent of his patience, the depth of his love, or the wisdom of his wit.

The persona of Gary Blair has been created over the course of 14 years at Texas A&M but long before he arrived in Bryan-College Station, he was established in Dallas, in Lubbock, in the states of Louisiana and Arkansas and his impact goes far beyond women’s basketball. His passion for baseball and his ability to participate, master, and teach any sport is exceeded only by his ability to motivate, inspire and lead young adults and teenagers.

There are more than a few "famous names" you'll encounter among contemporary sports legends whose high school careers intersected with Blair's days at South Oak Cliff High School in Dallas, or his days coaching at Louisiana Tech, but the beauty is that "each player" Gary Blair coached is a star in his book, and he in theirs.

Most refreshing in this volume is the accurate reflection and statistics on the paths to the various championships he collected with each pursuit. Co-author Rusty Burson is to be commended on two counts; first, the accuracy of the facts, figures, dates and places are guaranteed accurate because of his relentless pursuit of accuracy. (I remember hearing him speak at a live broadcast of the “Gary Blair Radio Show” during basketball season earlier this year.)

Second, Burson is a brilliant co-author in that he “let Blair be Blair,” which means the original authentic voice of Gary Blair remains unfettered, and the stories they share read as brilliantly as if you’d be hearing Gary relate them in person, as he can and does, to a delighted crowd of any size. Unquestionably, apart from sports, apart from his ever-abiding spirit of competition, family comes first with Gary Blair.

In addition to his own family, every student he ever coached is a permanent member of the Blair family collective. His wonderful memory is filled with the accomplishments of his students, and he is one proud papa to the world’s largest collective family, in addition to his own children and grandchildren.

The Marine in Gary Blair is also revealed and it’s no surprise he loves history, he loves his country and he loves people, even when he and a band of brothers were put to the test in boot camp. You learn how and why the famous (+) symbol is written on his left hand before the game (if you didn’t already know from being around his radio show or Aggie basketball fan events).

And no matter how many days you have to wait until basketball season starts again, there is baseball and golf and some other sport played at A&M that seems to generate a large amount of focus. I forget what it is, but unquestionably, Gary Blair is the most important proponent of all things Texas A&M. In fact, from the earliest days Gary Blair volunteered first to do the assignments that no one else wanted, created something from nothing, and took it to the top.

His legend grew, but his ego remained modest. He’s proud of what he’s done to be sure, but he’s never forgotten the joy of why he loves sports, youth, and coaching. Nor does he forget the people in his life who gave him his first opportunities, who stood by (and around) him when he needed them most, and whether he got paid for doing it (often he did not), he was ready at a moment’s notice to step in and be a part of generating focus and enthusiasm wherever it is needed at the time (unsalaried for doing it). This just generally shines through the way he describes the people in his life.

You will find Gary Blair front and center at soccer, volleyball, track and field, golf, women’s softball, and anything that involves competition and Aggies, and he’s the best advocate for women’s sports you could ever hope to have in Aggieland. Read how generous and enthusiastic he is about the accomplishments of all Aggie teams from his very beginning days.

There’s a Bible verse that reminds me of Blair: Matthew 6:33 (“But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.”) That’s basically who he is and what he does. His ability to connect with people is a real gift.

If you’re a Texas A&M former student, you want this book. Peek inside to meet a vital part of the Texas Aggie family, and stay a while to get a crash course in the making of a legend. This book was a gift to me and now I’m gifting it to others. It’s one you won't want to put down, so budget your time accordingly. Here's the link if you want your own copy: "A Coaching Life" by Gary Blair with Rusty Burson